Mistakes We Make

by Jenny Harper

  ‘Mr Blair,’ said the official with elaborate patience, ‘at this point we have no idea who might be implicated in the deception. There has to be a full investigation. We will send in a team of auditors who will interview everyone, including all the partners and, naturally, the cashier and delegated cash-room partner. It will take some time, although we will endeavour to be as speedy as we can with our investigations in order to minimise the impact on clients.’

  ‘On clients? What about our staff?’

  The set of the man’s jaw said everything. Some hours later, it was agreed that James Blair would retain his licence in order to facilitate the investigations and keep the firm operating with a skeleton staff.

  It was the first of many hammer blows.

  ‘Where is Agnes?’ James asked, glancing around the room.

  People glanced at each other, then blankly back at him. There were murmurs, but no clear response. They were uneasy. The atmosphere in the boardroom was troubled. No meeting of all staff had ever been called in this way without notice. Everyone was present, from the most junior secretary to the most senior partner. Adam spotted Caitlyn Murray near the window. She was leaning against the shutters, gripping the corner of the wall with one hand as if to steady herself, and her skin was white. He tried to catch her eye, hoping a calm look from him might help her, but she was staring at the ground.

  ‘Has she phoned in?’ James was asking the room at large.

  There were shrugs and vacant stares.

  Adam, still trying to process everything that had happened, felt a chill in his stomach.

  Agnes Buchanan. Chief Cashier.

  Surely not. Agnes, ‘rock of ages’, who had been with them for forty years. Impossible. She could not be implicated in this.

  And yet ... He glanced at James, but his father was drawing breath to speak.

  If Logan Keir had been siphoning money out of the firm into false accounts, surely he would need help. The partners might all have failed to spot the missing money by clever book-keeping, but Agnes could not have missed it. Agnes knew where every penny went in Blair King, right down to the drawing pins used to hold up notices in the staffroom.

  As soon as James had made his stark announcement and the meeting had broken up, Adam said to his father, ‘Agnes.’

  He didn’t need to say more. There was a flash of understanding swiftly followed by something much stronger.

  ‘I’ll phone,’ Adam said. ‘And if she doesn’t pick up, I’ll go to her house. If she’s not there—’ His lips tightened. ‘It’s the police, I suppose.’

  Agnes Buchanan lived in a neat little bungalow in a row of neat little bungalows in the middle of a 1940s estate. Each had a small front garden, most laid to grass with shrubs round the edges. Some had been bricked over to make driveways for cars, and Agnes’s silver Nissan was parked in her drive.

  Adam locked his car and studied the house. The garden was bounded by a low stone wall. A magnolia tree near the front window had been preserved when the drive had been laid and a couple of bushes afforded privacy from the bungalow next door. Some of the houses had been extended to accommodate young families. Agnes’s home was unchanged. She had taken care of it, however; that was clear. The window frames were pristine and white-painted and the door, which looked original, gleamed from its paint to its brass knocker.

  How long had she lived here? Adam had a dim memory of a funeral – Agnes’s mother? – a number of years ago, and it came to him that perhaps she had lived here all her life.

  What else did he know of Agnes Buchanan? Come to that, what did anyone know? She had worked for Blair King since she left school, aged sixteen. Forty years. When had that milestone been reached? Had they marked it in any way, celebrated her loyalty? Not, Adam realised, that he knew of. Had that rankled with the woman? Did she feel taken for granted, undervalued? She had never betrayed discontent.

  People liked Agnes. She was calm, efficient, pleasant, and if she kept her private life private, well, who were they to pry?

  He lifted the knocker and let it fall with a heavy thud.

  He waited, listening.

  Nothing.

  He tried again.

  Thud.

  Nothing.

  He pushed at the flap of the letterbox and stooped to peer inside. Beyond the hall a door opened at the back into what might be the kitchen.

  ‘Hello? Agnes? It’s Adam Blair.’

  Silence.

  ‘Trying to get Miss Buchanan, are you?’

  He swung round. On the pavement was an elderly man, his collar turned up against the chill air, a tweed cap pulled down over his eyes. A spaniel tugged at the lead he was holding.

  ‘Yes. Her car’s here. Do you know if she’s in? Are you a neighbour?’

  ‘That’s right. Next door. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days. Are you family?’

  Adam walked across the drive to the low wall. ‘I’m Adam Blair,’ he said, extending a hand, ‘her employer. She hasn’t come in today. It’s so unlike her, we were worried.’

  ‘Never takes a day off, that one, she told me so herself,’ the man said, yanking at the lead. ‘Here, Jack.’

  ‘Do you think she might be ill? You don’t happen to have a key, do you?’

  ‘Aye, I keep a key.’ The man looked doubtful. ‘Never been inside, mind. I just keep it in case of emergency.’

  Adam pursed his lips. ‘Maybe this is the time to dig it out.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘She could have fallen. She could be in bed, needing a doctor. Anything. We could take a look, just make sure.’

  ‘Well, if you think so. Maybe—’

  Adam waited, hopeful.

  ‘Or maybe we shouldn’t. She likes to keep herself to herself. She’s never asked me in.’

  ‘Mr—?’

  ‘Robertson. Jim Robertson.’

  ‘Mr Robertson, she may need help.’ Adam tried to keep his voice level. ‘I think we should go in. If she’s not there, or if she’s fine, we can leave. I’ll explain to her why we did it, if necessary. But if she’s ill and needs help, and we do nothing—’

  Mr Robertson took a decision. ‘You’re right. Come on then, lad.’

  They left Jack, protesting, in the kitchen at number forty, and returned a few minutes later with the key to Agnes’s front door.

  ‘Here goes.’

  ‘Agnes?’ Adam called again as soon as the door opened. ‘It’s Adam Blair.’

  ‘And Jim from next door.’

  They found her in the bathroom at the back of the house, crumpled awkwardly between the radiator and the bath. Adam dropped to his knees.

  ‘She’s alive,’ he said, feeling warmth and fumbling to find a pulse. ‘Agnes, can you hear me? It’s Adam Blair.’

  She had cut her head. Blood had trickled down her face and dried, so she’d clearly been there some time.

  ‘Agnes. Miss Buchanan!’

  There was a soft moan.

  ‘I’m calling an ambulance right now. You’re not to worry about anything. You’re going to be just fine,’ Adam said with more conviction than he felt.

  The paramedics were there in less than ten minutes. While they examined Agnes, Adam wandered into the hall and the kitchen. In the dining room, he stopped, surprised. The room was full of paintings. He spotted a large canvas that looked remarkably like a Joan Eardley, and another that had the hallmark of an Alberto Morocco. Prints, of course, they had to be – both were well-known Scottish artists whose works sold for thousands of pounds. He walked over to the Morocco and touched the canvas with a tentative finger. It was a great copy, that was for sure. The colours were faithful to what he knew of his style, and it had been printed onto canvas.

  In the living room, another large canvas dominated the room. Barbara Rae’s bright, colourful hand was unmistakeable.

  They had to be copies. Unless Agnes had come into a fair legacy from her parents, there was no way she would be able to afford work such as this.

  ‘L
ooks like she might have had a stroke.’

  Adam turned. The paramedics had moved Agnes onto a stretcher and into the hall. She still seemed to be unconscious.

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Hard to say. Depends how long she’s been lying there. The cut on her head almost certainly happened when she fell. Anyway, best get on. Are you coming to the hospital with her?’

  ‘Hospital? No,’ Adam said, disconcerted. ‘I’ll call later to find out how she’s doing.’

  While Agnes was being transferred to the ambulance, he took out his phone and quickly photographed several of her paintings. He’d ask Patrick Mulgrew later what he knew about them. Patrick would know.

  ‘Messages for you, Mr Blair,’ said the girl on reception as soon as he stepped inside the office.

  He took the notes she handed to him and glanced through them. Adrienne Keir had been on the phone several times – why hadn’t his father talked to her? A number of clients had been trying to get hold of him. Had word got out already?

  He spoke to a panicky and incredulous Adrienne and promised to drop in to see her as soon as he could get away.

  He called each client and gave them the line he’d been advised to give by the Law Society.

  Finally, he called Molly.

  ‘I know Adrienne is worried, Molly. I’ve spoken to her. Yes ... Yes ... It’s true, no-one knows where he has disappeared to. No, really, I have no idea.’

  He gripped the phone tightly. ‘Molly – I’m sorry, love. There’s something I have to tell you about your brother—’

  Part Two

  Chapter One

  Molly didn’t need to open her eyes to know that she was in the flat she shared in London – she could hear the gentle lapping of the waves of the Thames on the small mudflat outside her window. Gulls were squabbling angrily over some titbit washed up by the tide. A boat sped past, its wash smacking against the houseboats moored on the bank.

  Her first thought was that living by the river had been an unexpected bonus – it had compensated greatly for losing her beautiful apartment at Fleming House.

  Her second thought was ... where’s Logan?

  The change in the sequence of thoughts was an improvement, but the feeling of deep desolation stayed with her after the boat had passed and the gulls had fallen silent.

  A gentle rap on the door heralded Julian’s voice. ‘You awake, darling?’

  Molly hoisted herself to a sitting position and her mouth softened into a small smile. ‘Sure.’

  She ran her hands quickly through her hair to neaten it – not that Julian would mind, however sleep-tossed it was. Julian Granger’s friendship was solid and comforting, and in the whirlpool of emotion and activity into which she had been plunged, she clung to it, sometimes with desperation.

  ‘I brought you some tea. Can I come in?’

  Barnaby had introduced her to the softly-spoken banker soon after she arrived in London – he’d just broken up with his partner and was ‘right off men, darling’. Sharing suited them both. The door inched open and Julian appeared, a mug in each hand. His dark hair was damp, but he was dressed already, his pale pink shirt ironed to pristine crispness, his suit trousers neat as new. She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, light and fresh. He always judged things nicely.

  ‘Wanted to be sure you were all right, sweetie. Haven’t seen you for days.’

  Molly switched on her bedside light and accepted the mug with a grateful ‘thanks’. Julian was one of the best-looking men she had ever set eyes on. He had magazine-model looks, with dark hair and eyes, and eyelashes that were impossibly thick. He was naturally slim, his fingers were long and elegant, and high cheekbones lent his face stunning definition. It was a crying shame that he was off limits, but it did make life simpler.

  ‘What star did you zoom down from, Jules? I swear, you’re an angel sent from heaven.’

  Julian sank down on the corner of her bed, smiling. ‘You do say lovely things. Seriously – how are you? We’ve been missing each other all week. I needed to know you were still alive.’

  The tea was hot and strong, just as she liked it. Julian had a knack of knowing what she needed, and providing it at exactly the right time.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s been a busy week.’

  He shrugged lazily and raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s new?’

  Molly closed her eyes and sipped at the tea. Every morning, the memories flooded back and she had to work her way through them in order to face the new day. It wasn’t all gloom. Fletcher Keir Mason had been registered as a company in January – a milestone to celebrate, because for the couple of months after Logan had disappeared, the possibility of it ever happening had seemed very remote indeed.

  Julian said, ‘Don’t think about it, sweetie.’

  She opened her eyes and gave him a crooked smile. ‘About what?’

  ‘You were thinking about your brother.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You had that look.’ He shook his head sympathetically. ‘There’s nothing you can do to bring him back, so don’t waste your energy.’

  ‘I just wish I knew where he was.’

  ‘Darling.’ Julian extended a hand. She took it. ‘It’s working out. Logan will be swigging cocktails in Brazil; you’re not to worry about him. Your dad’s fine. Your nephews are doing well. Your career has taken off. What’s to fret over?’

  Adam, Molly thought, though she would never say it, not even to Julian.

  ‘We need,’ Barnaby Fletcher said, ‘to keep ahead of the game, and the game is changing very fast.’

  Molly looked round the table. There were five of them in the meeting – herself, Barnaby, Kenneth Mason the third shareholding director, a branding specialist they’d brought in to beef up the team (and the capital), and two young and ambitious men who were more savvy than she would ever be about the ‘new order’: social media and marketing in the digital age.

  ‘It’s getting harder and harder to persuade businesses to part with money for traditional marketing.’ Barnaby was never happier than when he was building strategy. He glanced at Molly and broke into one of his big bear grins. ‘We can beat the pack if we’re smart.’

  Molly smiled back. I’m a split persona nowadays, she thought. Melancholy in the mornings and a vibrant shooting star of thrilling ideas and full-on animation as soon as I get into the office.

  As she spent far more hours in the office than anywhere else these days, she decided that life wasn’t so bad. While she was here, she more or less forgot about Logan and the appalling trail of devastation he’d left in his wake. She was making her mark in a fast-moving, challenging industry, and she was having a ball.

  Kenneth said, ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Peer influence and community orientation. We need to hook in to social media, and we can develop new ways of informing and persuading.’

  Molly loved this buzz. Her strength might be event management, but she was learning about other key areas fast. She was a leader, not a follower, and she was on top of her game.

  She chased a stray lock of hair away from her face and thought, it’s been this length for far too long. I’ll get it cut.

  The thought pleased her. She had transformed her life; now she would transform her image as well.

  Barnaby said, ‘There’s a new contract up for grabs. It’s a huge public health campaign and it’s worth a lot of money. There’ll be some very big players competing for the contract, but I believe we can win it by switching to smart, creative thinking.’ He paused and looked around the table. ‘It’ll be a lot of work. Are you up for it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kenneth.

  ‘Sure,’ the young men chorused.

  ‘Why else,’ Molly said, ‘are we here?’

  She telephoned her father later as she walked briskly in the thin March sunshine to get a sandwich.

  ‘Hello, love. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Cooking stew.’

&
nbsp; ‘For supper?’

  ‘A huge potful. I reckoned it would be a good idea to do enough for several meals and freeze it. There’s never enough time these days, and they eat so much.’

  Molly laughed. If she hadn’t experienced her father’s recently acquired cooking skills for herself, she would not have believed him, but having his grandchildren in the house had transformed him. Adrienne, shocked rigid in the first days after Logan’s disappearance, had been unable to think past the next hours, let alone what the future might hold. One morning, denial had given way to anger, and anger to determination, and she had marched round to Billy’s bungalow.

  ‘I can’t live like this,’ she’d announced. ‘I can’t sit around moaning and feeling sorry for myself. I have to do something.’

  ‘I agree.’ Billy had always been direct, but his manner was so affable that no-one ever took exception.

  ‘I have to go back to work. We can’t afford private schools for the boys, and the house will have to go. I need you to look after the children while I’m working, and we’ll pay our way. Will you help us?’

  Billy had embraced his daughter-in-law and grandchildren with open arms.

  ‘It’ll give me a purpose in life,’ he’d declared to a shocked Molly, ‘and company.’

  Molly had been livid at Adrienne’s effrontery, but her father had been right and so far the effects of the arrangement had all been positive. The Adrienne that Molly knew – spoilt, demanding and extravagant – had become a new woman. Any selfishness had been redirected towards survival and the protection of her children. She snapped up a well-paid job as cabin crew on international flights and became a whirlwind of efficiency, economy and order, while Billy and his grandchildren began to bond in all kinds of unexpected ways.

  He imposed a kind of mild-mannered discipline that the boys accepted without demur. Time spent on computers or phones, or watching television, was monitored and restricted. Instead, the boys made themselves useful around the house, learned new skills, and took it upon themselves to became responsible for Billy’s safety and wellbeing. During the weeks when Adrienne was off rota, she had time to help in the home, and she and Billy provided much-needed mutual support.